Something new
by BreathSlowAndHeavy
Summary: Johnlock. Can one survive without the other? Get's darker as chapters progress. Contains death, love, self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

1

"Sherlock- have you seen my cardigan anyway?" as I finished that sentence I didn't need an answer, my eyes which were casually searching the room fell upon where it was residing. It was there, on him, draped over him, he was wearing it. Why was he wearing my cardigan?

"Sherlock, why are you wearing it?" A wave of the hand.

"cold."

It's all I've been getting recently. Hand gestures, one word replies, brushing off any comment or question I ask him. It's not out of the ordinary for him to be using my belongings; my laptop, phone, but still... my clothes? This was something new, my mind started to think of the reasons. No, he can't... he wouldn't, couldn't, could he?

I shrug the thought off almost the instant it entered my mind. He's Sherlock - married to his work. It's not out of character either, would be nice once in a while for him to ask, but I shrug it off, almost as easily as he brushes me off, and get on with the day.

"Tea, john make me tea." So caught up I my own thoughts, I jump. Sherlock's' voice sounds so loud, so deep, so... lovely. It fills the room. He barely speaks to me all week, and the first time in three days, he demands tea. I'm tempted for only a moment to deny his request, but as usual I make him his tea, after all I'm only going to make myself one. Its good manners right? He hasn't eaten, all that I've seen anyway, so it probably isn't wise to deny this request.

It's an odd sight seeing him like this, I know better, but I would swear when he's alone he lets his emotions get to him, there's a moment of emotion in his eyes, for a fraction of a second as he looks up at me with that smile. God that smile... but that emotion, i couldn't quite place it, lonlieness? No. Sherlock could never feel lonely could he? Longing? For who... I must have been mistaken, after all- I do know better. He's my best friend, my roommate. So why does that look play on my mind?

"John. Really that cup of tea would be amazing right now" lost in thought he startles me, again. Crossing the room I started to come back to reality and pushed that thought to the back of my mind, passing him the cup our hands accidentally brush, usually something I would overlook it wouldn't bother me at all, it was nothing, but this time... a small shiver went through my arm. I looked up at him but he was already backing into his work. God i hope he didn't notice that, he would surely deduce something from that. What was going on? It was probably nothing, a coincidental chill, but then Sherlock would have felt it as well, but if it wasn't a chill, would he have felt it as well?

"I'm going out, I'll be back late. There'll be milk tomorrow." Slowly turning around, since in the time he had said this he was already across the room with his jacket on, I caught him putting that scarf on, a quick smile and a bye, and he was gone. Probably for the best, surely these thoughts were from a lack of sleep, it was the only reasonable explanation. I mean, it's Sherlock, I don't actually feel like that. It's impossible.

"I think I need to sleep, yes. Sleep." With a nod I said to myself. Lying down on the sofa I slowly drifted off to sleep, but that gentle split second brush and that smile was the last thing I saw flash before my eyes, before I finally drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

2

John steps into the room, without looking up I know it's John, the way people walk can tell so much, his well trained body take controlled even steps across the floor, much unlike Mrs Hudson who has much more of a shuffle in her step, he then proceeds to ask me something but I wasn't paying much attention. The task at hand needed to be complete. The case needed to be solved. My eyes hurt from the constant staring into a lens, but bodily needs can be overcome easily. This time he speaks a little louder, the military background more than likely has something to do with the ability of the control over his voice. I barely look up, and reply "cold" and suppressed the urge to go on at him for not being able to work that out for himself. I've taught him enough on deduction, I should start a conversation but there are more pressing matters at hand. He sounds worried, confused... a hint of excitement? No, I must have misread his tone of voice. If anything he's slightly annoyed. I suppose it is slightly odd to see your flatmate wearing your cardigan, but it's only an item of clothing. Simple minds over think everything.

I can feel the silence around us building up too much for John; it's very rare an awkward silence occurs between John and I. He's too lost in thought to see me look at him. Oh how I wish my body would stop disobeying my mind when it comes to John, his eyes... I need to stop. Back to work.

"Tea, John make me tea." I startled him, he jumped. I didn't mean to scare him but he was staring and... He's still lost in thought, but he's moving, almost gliding, his body's on autopilot. I can tell, he doesn't notice when I look up again. The thought of me in his clothing has sparked an idea in his head, but he's trying to brush it off. He keeps shaking his head ever so slightly, with a strange expression on his face. I cannot tell if this thought makes him happy of not... but curiosity. That is defiantly there.

The quick glances he passes at me every so often, flicking from me to his cardigan, the small smile, and the head shakes. Surely he cannot have guessed correctly? I've hidden these emotions from myself for so long, almost erased them, only when our eyes meet occasionally do the..., what is the expression? butterflies enter my stomach. What a stupid expression. I have to stop myself from thinking about this, change the topic in my mind, he's frozen, clearly stuck on that thought, but seems to have passed the one thought that is true, but instead of feeling happy, I feel slightly, what is this? Disappointed? Ignoring what I know to be the truth, I pin the feeling down to the fact I thought I had taught him better. I have to break him from the trance he's locked himself into.

"John. Really that cup of tea would be amazing right now" I say, not loudly but the room was so quiet it seemed to echo. I startled him, again. I'm sorry John. He passes my tea to me, I look up and pass a quick smile, but as the cup is passed between our hands- we touch. His hands... what an odd texture, worn but soft, strong but gentle. My mind starts to wonder back to what I've imagined about those hands. I cannot stay; I cannot let these bodily needs overcome me. I have to leave, he's still in his trance, I suspect he didn't take notice of the quick touch between us, but I did and now it needs to leave me mind.

I cross the room, John... my Dear John doesn't notice until I'm leaving.

"I'm going out, I'll be back late. There'll be milk tomorrow." At this he looks up, notices I'm leaving, watches my hands wrap my scarf around my neck, accepts my smile and nods in return. I feel terrible leaving him like this, so confused, but he doesn't notice that I leave his cardigan still on. He'll place all his thoughts on lack of sleep, and this will pass for him tomorrow, I however, these thoughts will not leave my mind. I make my way to the Lab, my work takes over, but I know that these thoughts will not leave me; they haven't since the day at the swimming pool- willing to risk his own life for me. No one had shown me that form of friendship before. Oh John, how I wish I could tell you, but I do not wish you to know just yet, for this I am thankful of your lack of skills in deducing.


	3. Chapter 3

3

He slowly slid his hands from neck down my back, the touch of his skin sending small shivers throughout my entire body. His lips, so perfectly formed barely touched, ghosted, over jaw line, chin, lips, neck, earlobes. Anywhere he could find. I couldn't remember how we got here, in fact I can't remember even wanting this, but now this is all I care for all I want. Sherlock, touching me, holding me, kissing me...

One of his hands slides back up and pulls my chin down, moans my name gently against my mouth then kisses me with the most passionate kiss I have ever had. His hands then slide back down against my body, taking in all the reactions my body makes to his touch, finding the areas that make me shudder with excitement and takes advantage. I'm used to being at the mercy of Sherlock's mind, but this is something new, being controlled by his body, my body is his toy, and he's loving it, I'm loving it. The kiss stops and his mouth follows the trail left by his hands, working its way down my neck, shoulders, chest... alternating between soft kisses and bites. The feel of him working on my body, it feels like his deducing my body. Using his amazing mind to only impress but please.

The excitement in me builds, and I can feel my trousers tightening, picking up on this he lowers his hands even further, working their way from the lower of my back to my belt line, gently running his thumb along the inside line of my trousers. My breathing quickens, deep, quick breaths.

I try and speak, call out Sherlock, try and return the feelings, the emotion- the pleasure, but true to Sherlock, he just shushes me and pushes me back onto the bed. Legs over the side of the bed, his hands keeping mine pinned to the bed his mouth now playfully biting any area between my belly button and belt line... he slides his hands up my arms, and back down, his breathing now matching the pace of mine, all the while increasing as he gets closer to what we both want. His hands glide their way along my hips, to my button and zip... slowly undoing both.

"Sherlock... please..." I manage to let escape, half a whisper, but he hears.

"Shhh John, I know" he chuckles... now taking his time, even longer than before... allowing more tension to build between us.

No pattern to our breathing now, he slips my trousers down... following them with his hands and his mouth, kissing, licking the inside of my thigh; works his way back up, and finds what's waiting for him. Breaths hot air through the thin fabric, sending more than enough shivers though my body and slowly removes this item of fabric to. Sherlock still fully clothed, kneeling in front of me, giving himself to me in a way I'm sure he has too no one else. He slides his entire back up over me so his mouth is on mine again.

"Tell me John, tell me what you want, exactly want you want from me. Tell me John" and starts to blow ghost kisses over my neck causing goose bumps to form, making me harder than I thought I could be. I can barely speak, I manage to form the words, but no sound is made. Nothing but the near pants I'm breathing.

"Tell me John, please. Let me hear you say what you want." And grabs me in his hand causing me to almost scream his answer.

"You, Sherlock! I need you!" That's all he needed, his hand starts working on me, slow gentle strokes. Working with my breathing, increasing his speed as I increased my breathes, working with my body not his own rhythm. One hand giving me what I want, need, his other behind my back, pulling me into him, finding spots that cause me to arch myself into his grip. God he knew what he was doing, still refusing to let me return anything, his mouth working away, nibbling at me ears and neck.

"Sherlock..." I was so close, and he knew it,

"Sherlock!" I exclaim, oh god... his mouth, it's left my neck, replaced his hand, does this man have no gag reflex. So close to the end,

"Sherlock... please..." I whisper, the build up so intense; his mouth so amazing that I can't hold it any longer.

Gasping for air, I sit up. In fact, it was more of a jump from a lying position to a sitting position. A mess over my sheets, it was obvious what form of dream I'd been having, but what had it actually been about. It felt wrong, oh how I wish I could remember.


	4. Chapter 4

The lab bored me, the people in it bored me, and the work concealed under a microscope bored me. Nothing can catch my interest. Nothing but one man. 2 a.m. I start to make my way back home, I'm sure the taxi driver talks to me, but I do not hear, my mind is at work processing how to handle this situation; Murders, homicides, all of these- so much easier to solve and explain then this situation and these emotions. Plus, I'm weary of taxi drivers now after the first case in which John saved my life for me... Oh John, you've done so much for me and you never think twice about it.

I pay the cabbie, probably more than I should do, I rarely care to check. I'm sure there's something I've forgotten... Oh the milk. I'm sure John won't mind. It's now half past 2 in the morning, I better not wake John so I unlock the door as quietly as I can. Mrs Hudson's' snoring can just be heard through the walls. Climb the stairs on my toes, avoiding the creaky ones and the area's on some that also creak. Silence rings throughout the entire flat. That is until I open our door; John's having a fit again in his dreams. Haunted by that war that's made him so strong and loyal and determined, but hunts at the fears of the mind when it's at its weakest. It sound worse than normal, he's breathing heavier and louder than usual, moving more than he should be. Against my better judgement I walk towards his room.

I open the door a tiny crack, allowing the light from the landing to illuminate half the sleeping face.

"Sherlock... please" This scares me; I could have sworn he was asleep, but upon further inspection I see he still is asleep. The eyes are moving quickly under the closed eye lids. R.E.M. he's asleep but dreaming still. He's asking for me and to this I do not know how to respond, so I slowly walk over to his bed, sit upon side of him and gentle lay my hand on his, letting him know I'm here. It's all I can do without waking him, in which could be highly dangerous. He's still making noises, as if he's trying to sound my name. So I take my hand and lay it across his forehead- he has a temperature.

"Shhh John, I know" what else could I say to him, I cannot confess how I feel to a sleeping man, but I have to let him know I'm here. To this thought I can't help but laugh to myself slightly, how odd it would be to tell him this. His breathing increases, do I wake him now? I find it hard to answer any question when it comes to this man. It's never as simple as do this because it's the right thing to do, or because it is the answer. I care for this man and I worry what consequence may occur from my actions. If any harm came to him from my actions... I would never forgive myself.

"Tell me John, tell me what you want, exactly want you want from me. Tell me John" I know he can hear me, but I also know he won't answer, outside influences seem different, deranged in the dream world, but it's the best I can do to help him. John's breathing increases still, his temperature rising, panic now sets in. I've always known the answer to everything; tell the difference between a murder and a suicide by which side of the knife used to butter a piece of bread. However this, this is new, I care, more than I can afford to. Help me John, please. You're scaring me, tell me what to do. Please John, anything just tell me. I'm begging him in my mind, running my hand along his face, his lips, slightly more pressure than necessary- trying to wake him but to no avail. How am I getting all this wrong, there must be a fact I'm missing.

"Tell me John, please. Let me hear you say what you want" Now I'm begging, gripping his hand tightly white marks are left from the pressure; His temperature dangerously high for a dream, his breaths no longer following a pattern, uneven, quick breaths. John please, I carry on begging in him in my mind. Gripping his hand tightly, trying to get through to him that I'm here and whatever dream he's having isn't real, it cannot harm him.

"You, Sherlock! I need you!" John almost screams, as far as the definition of a scream can go when you're asleep and dreaming. I gasp, release his hand instantly, and a flood of emotions run through me. Does this mean he feels the same way? Or is it simply down to the fact he needs my comfort? My stomach tenses, my heart skips a beat and my mind loses all walls and all common sense, I cannot think straight. I sit for what feels like forever watching him, but what I know to only take a whole 5 minutes before I start to move again. Shocked from John's reaction I don't know what to think. My mind no longer working by itself, instead my body rules me.

I move forward and lower myself down towards his face, his body still breathing fast and heavy beneath me, his temperature still high- our foreheads touching. Now my breathing starts to lose control, my mouth starts to dry. Heart flutters. I lick my lips and start to bring them towards John's. I can feel his breath against my lips, such a sensitive area it causes me to shake. My hands either side of his body supporting my weight. I bring myself closer to him, until barely a millimetre is between our lips, so close but not quite touching.

"Sherlock..." John whispers. I jump back, he's starting to wake. I need to leave. My senses come back, and I realise, I understand now. He is not suffering from a nightmare caused by the war. This dream could not be further from that explanation. No, I know what dream he is having, filled with fear of being caught on that near kiss and excitement from the revelation that what I wish to be true may be exact in life. I turn, feeling the air from the long coat run along the room. I close the door and walk away in haste. I do not stop when I hear John calling out my name again. I cannot risk being caught. I do not wish to erase these memories, or emotions, but I cannot live with this any longer. I have to indulge in bodily needs, whether it is John or not.

The sofa is all I can make it to, throw myself onto it, and curl up, the taste of John still on my lips. How I wish I could tell you John, tell you everything. I'll treasure that near-kiss.

Sentimental crap.


	5. Chapter 5

After removing the sheets and wrapping my dressing gown around myself, I thought it wise to wash the sheets. Sherlock wouldn't be home yet, and even if he was, with any luck he'd be asleep. He doesn't need to know about this. Best friend or not, there are some things he doesn't need to know about. Walking into the living room, he's nowhere to be seen, but his trench coat hangs beside the door. It's rare for Sherlock to actually go to bed, and not the sofa. That trench coat, how it whips round when he turns...

No stop. These thoughts, I have to stop letting them through. I'm not even sure where they're coming from, but becoming increasingly more frequent, and harder to ignore. Placing the sheets in the washing machine, and setting them to wash, I find myself walking to the bathroom. Maybe a shower will help put my mind at ease, relax me enough to help me remember what I had been dreaming about to cause this. I'm not a teenager anymore. I shouldn't be suffering from the confused emotions anymore. I'm straight, I've worked that out, I've been through that awkward age. But these thoughts towards Sherlock, I guess it's nothing. Is he who I dreamt about? I can't remember, no matter how hard I try. Still in a state sleep, I make my way through the corridor, picking up some fresh, clean towels along the way. Not hearing that the shower was already running, I opened the door to the bathroom. A wave of heat and steam came over me and before I had time to react my eyes landed on Sherlock. Standing naked in the shower. Then the dream that had long ago ended flashed through my mind, I felt the shiver send through my body, the same shiver I felt when our hands brushed. Quickly slamming the door shut, suddenly feeling wide awake, every inch of me felt alive. My cheeks flushed, and parts of me reacted to the sight of Sherlock in a way it shouldn't. Running to my room I shut the door with more force than necessary. Sherlock has to have known I saw him, I made to much noise.

Damn it.

I let myself slide down the door, feeling the coldness of the floor and door flood through me, chilling me, calming my thoughts. Everything's spinning around in my head. This can mean nothing. I saw my roommate, my best friend, after having a... provocative dream about him. Surely, in some way this can be a pure form of coincidence. I feel my hands grip the rug I sit on. All the training in the force, everything I'd learnt, to be able to push emotions away to deal with the situation at hand- just melted away. I fail to make any sense of how I'm feeling about this, the situation, the happenings... Sherlock.

Hearing the shower turn off, I froze. What do I do? With nothing else coming to mind I lock the door frantically, and fall back to the floor. Listening carefully, I hear my blood pump through my veins, my breathing, my heart beat. Pushing past my own body I hear gentle footsteps walk their way through the corridor. Gradually getting closer to the door. My breathing increases, what do I say if he calls me out. It's in Sherlock's behaviour to wake me in the middle of the night. He would feel no guilt. What do I do if he saw me see him like that? The footsteps get louder, working their way towards my door. The shadow of Sherlock pauses outside my door. I can see it creep its way through the crack under the door. I sit there on my hands and knees, panting, staring and praying that he doesn't call for me.

" Shit, he saw me." This I say slightly louder then I'm aware.

"Please, Sherlock walk on, please for once be human. Just walk past." Whispering to myself, begging almost for this. As if he actually heard me he walked on, and I released a breath I didn't realise I was holding. I sit there like this until I hear him shut his door. There I slowly stand, open the door, and feel tears start to form. Not because I am sad, but because I have never been put in this situation. I climb into bed, and struggle to sleep, having fits, thinking of Sherlock. I dread the waking hours when our eyes meet. I know he saw me, and I have no idea what to make of it.

In the time I wake from sleep I think of him, I think of his eyes, how deep the colour goes, his hair, how his hands work so well on that bloody violin. What has this man done to me?


	6. Chapter 6

I can't do this. Sleep avoids me. Thoughts and memories of John haunt me. I don't even have a case to distract me. Nothing to concentrate on.

Why is it easier to convince police that someone fell out of a window repeatedly then it is to make heads or tails of these thoughts? This is pointless I won't sleep, I can't. My mind is on John alone after his dream. It's all I've wanted for so long, longing for the feel of him against me. The real him. The real John. This is too much, white words flashing before my eyes- everywhere. I can't see straight, let alone think straight.

Heat. Shower. I've got to clear my mind, the only time I let it rest. Shower. I head towards the shower allowing the thoughts to flood my mind, ruin any trail of thought. I let the thoughts take over me completely allowing myself to fall into the shower. I cannot remember taking my clothes off, or leaving them on the floor. The water runs over my body, pulling away these thoughts with them.

"Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination" I whisper through the water falling around me- destined to hit the floor, my heart, destined to fall for John. Sentiment. If I cannot delete these thoughts, _feelings_, from my hard drive normally than I will find a way of doing so. I hear the normal, simple minded people take a shower to 'wash away feelings'.

I need a case. Badly.

My mind wonders. I fight it now, not wanting to give in to these... this sentimental crap. John creeps over my mind.

"Get out..." I whisper silently.

I think back to the dream. The way he cried out my name. Pulse racing, skin clammy, writhing against his sheets that cling to him...

"Get out...!" now audible to myself, my own ears, and senses.

John. The one who saved my life multiple times, risking his own life without a second thought. Loyal, willing to follow me wherever I lead him, no matter how dangerous. Why would he do this, it cannot be just friendship, please, please be more than friendship...

"GET OUT! GET OUT GET! OUT!" I shout. Louder than I intended. Slamming my fists against the wall. Pushing my head up against it, breathing in heavily, sharply. Angry with myself for allowing these thoughts and emotions to control my thinking, my common sense. Reality. The cold of wall against my nose, the shower falling heavily around me, landing large drops of water over my body. My heart pounding, breathing through my mouth.

I shouted. I must have waked John up. I stop, freezing as I was, breathing halted, the rollercoaster of thoughts in my head stopping abruptly, and I listened. I listened for any sign of movement. The floor creaks, but too quite to be John.

Mrs. Hudson moving for her tea. Can't sleep. Typical.

Windows and doors shutting too muffled to be downstairs, other flats, houses. Cars. No sign from John. Not even turning in his sheets.

At least I can take control of my mind when I really need to. I didn't wake him.

Stupid move, losing control of myself, allowing myself to let go. Bury the thoughts, bury them deep. I cannot wash them away or delete them. I will push them, bury them. I want to look at him, look at his eyes and not quiver like a girl meeting a celebrity, or the way molly does when I get her name right and not call her John. Easy to explain away that mistake when everyone believes it's not what it is. Simple minds are easily persuaded to believe anything. Shooting walls, and blaming it on boredom. Boredom really is frustration. So why not shoot something.

I run my hands through my hair. Not hearing the door open until I hear the gasp and the door shutting, quickly, loudly. I did wake him, he just wasn't aware it was me that woke him or he would have moved straight away. Rushed to see if I was hurt or in trouble.

That's just how John is, always rushing to keep me safe. His mistake- letting his emotions get to him.

How do I react to this? He isn't away I witnessed his dream, but he witnessed me in the shower, but he wasn't aware of what I was thinking, but the sight of me like this surely would have brought back any memory of that dream he had forgotten.

Look at the facts Sherlock. What. Can. You. See.

John. Clouds my judgment, my senses everything. I cannot make a deduction with how he feels. I can tell when he's come back from a date that went badly from the way he unlocks and opens the door, but I cannot work this out.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry guys... this is the rest of Sherlock's chapter. I left my laptop and forgot I hadn't finished the chapter and just uploaded it...  
>I am sorry, forgive me.<p>

I climb out the shower, wrap the towel around me and decide what to do. I've got to talk to him. I have to. I make me way through the steamed room leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor. I open the door and feel my feet freeze against the wooden flooring. I feel a rush as I start to think what to say to John.

The truth, but then again, what is the truth? That I've fallen in love with him? I sigh, loudly; I take normal steps, maybe landing on the floor slightly heavier than expected and needed. My breathing increases but I can hear John panic and lock the door, sliding down to the floor. He expects me to not hear his muttering under his breath, but the apartment is relatively silent. Of course I can hear him. I step up to his door, allowing my shadow to flood through under the door, allowing him to know I am around, I am here for him. Although I know that the door is locked, I reach out and touch the handle anyway, part of me hoping John will open the door, take me in his arms, and all this confusion will be over.

"John... please." Very silently do I say this, sigh and walk away. Hearing him release his breath, my heart drops inside.

It's time to get over this, that sigh has only one possible deduction. John doesn't feel the same. I have to lose these feelings, to do so I must call upon a favour, in which to indulge the very basic of bodily needs. Goodbye John. I will not hold this burden over us anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

7:47. Hopefully he's asleep. That's likely. That man never sleeps, come to think of it, he never really eats either, how is he even alive anymore? He must be thinner than his perfect physique actually shows. Those cheek bones...

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Fall asleep thinking of Sherlock, sleep dreaming of Sherlock, go for a shower I see Sherlock, wake up... I think of Sherlock. It's impossible to erase a thought once it's been planted. Oh God, I'm even quoting him now. He needs a case, one far away, where I can have a break from him. At what point did I start to feel like this towards him, that's if it is even any feelings. Thinking back to the times in battle, walking past tents moving in a way they shouldn't, breathing irregular of patterns of sleep, and no one ever thought twice of it. There was never any emotion, it was just a release, stressful situations, and when you're cooped up with a person long enough you do develop a relationship.

Shit.

Sighing heavily I realise I fell asleep against the door. That's why the numbers on the clock looked smaller than usual. Bloody hell. Standing up I feel the muscles stretch in agony from the very unsuitable sleeping area I chose from the night before, bones cracking everywhere I manage to make it to my feet. With a yawn I open the door with one hand rubbing the back of my neck, very sore. Next time I'll be sure to make it to my bed no matter how shocked I am. Creeping down the stairs I pause at Sherlock's door, listen carefully to see if I can hear any form of sleep at all. Nothing. No sheets rustling, no breathing, no nothing. Just silence.

"I suppose you're trying to see if I'm awake yet then John? I'll save you trouble." He comes round the corner quicker than I intended, his sheet flying everywhere, what is it with that man and objects that... that swoosh? His coat... that bloody sexy trench coat.

No John no!

I was still in shock from the loud voice echoing out to me from the kitchen to even realise he was there.

"Morning John." He smiles at me and when our eyes meet the atmosphere tenses up, it's incredibly easy to lose yourself in those eyes, the eyes that have a colour that cannot be described. Looking away quickly, not half a second later from when they met, but the amount of thoughts that ran through my head in that short space of time, and that look in his eyes there's something there, probably lack of sleep, or he hasn't been awake long. Either way i refuse to believe what i really know...Lost in thought I smile back and push my way past him.

We brush again, our bare arms touching gently on the other. That same shiver arises again. Please don't have noticed, please Sherlock. Searching for a cup of tea, it's like a drug towards us I realise as I think back over it, whenever either of us are stressed or tired, or need a break or to relax, there is always only one answer. Tea. Thinking deeper into it, could it be the tea, or the one who makes it.

No stop John, you have to stop these thoughts. You can control them and you will. You have controlled much worse, if you need to, pull rank on yourself.

Dear lord this man is driving me crazy even in my own mind.

" Sherlock do you want any breakfa... never mind." What's the point in asking, if I'm lucky I'll get a no and then some form of a rant as to why eating is not important instead of just silence. Strike that, i'll be lucky if i get silence. I wished he looked after himself more, even before all this confusing emotional stuff.

"Actually I'd love a bowl of cereal John" Well what's gotten into him? He's being anything but himself. He's awake at an early hour, although that's Sherlock all over, except he's not doing work, not playing violin. He's just sat there... probably in his mind palace, so he's normal up to this point, plus the fact he's dressed in his sheet... his bed sheet and nothing else. The restraint to stop my eyes wondering.

That is typical of Sherlock, but he's asking for something to eat, he doesn't do that. Very rarely does he eat; only after a really long case has been solved and we order a take away have I seen him actually eat. So why is he eating now? Probably some form of experiment, to see how I react, then again... this could just be another part of Sherlock, random, unpredictable. Why is that man so complicated? I can never quite understand him, when I think I start to get somewhere he does something and sets me back again; he's a sociopath, a high functioning sociopath according to him. So why does he show emotion, he cares. He panics each time my life is at risk. I have to bring this up...

"Sherlock? I think we need to talk" turning around with the bowl of cereal in hand I see he's gone. Scarf, jacket and all. I didn't even hear him leave. With any luck he's gone out to get the milk he forgot last night, there was enough to breakfast and tea, but now we're out. Sherlock, get the milk? That's as possible as a fairytale... Moriaty. I will never forgive that man for the way he played Sherlock's mind like a game, used me and others as pieces in a chess set to manoeuvre Sherlock just the way he wanted, that man will kill Sherlock one day, and Moriaty won't be long behind him if he does. I'll be sure of that. Well at least now I have time to think, and clear my mind of him I suppose. Putting his bowl back into the kitchen a go to the sofa and relax against it, only half listening to the ramblings on the news. A few stories where Sherlock will be called, but he won't go, he won't rate the crime higher than a six therefore not leaving the flat, but if Lestrade begs and pleads enough he'll set his best man on the job.

Lucky me. His best man, I'm his only man, his only friend, or so he says. He has friends, he just refuses to accept it really. He goes to them for help, Molly especially but for some reason, _they just don't count to him. _Why am I so special to him?

Similar thoughts arise; old hypotheses re-establish themselves in my mind. Maybe he does lo... no. Stop, he can't and you most certainly do not. With a now shaking hand I attempt to eat, but I can't. My stomachs too busy pretended to be an acrobat. Even my tea makes me feel sick. The more I want Sherlock out of my head, the more I think of him.

It's psychological, if you tell someone to not think of something, they think of it, because the order 'think of this' is there. So I try a different technique; distraction. Nothing works, the entire flat is clean, I don't touch the kitchen because I have no idea what chemicals are there and what damage they can do, after the liquid that burnt a hole into the floor, it's wiser to stay away. He knows the rules; don't put anything in the kettle or cups. At least they're not contaminated. All dishes have been washed however, bed made, everything, but the whole time. Every single second my mind was on Sherlock.

His eyes, those bloody eyes, how easy it is to get lost in them, and then I realised. It really wasn't sleep that I saw in those eyes this morning.


	9. Chapter 9

6:31. John won't be awake yet. He enjoys sleeping, and even if he's awake he'll hold out in his room as long as possible. John won't want to face what he would define as an 'awkward situation'. Although thinking over it, I'm not really sure I want to see him either. It's hard enough seeing him walk around the flat before the happenings of last night. I won't risk waking him, I'll leave the violin alone, but I'm so bored. There's no case, so no reason to go to the lab. Most people would put the TV on, but John said I'm limited as to how much I watch, apparently I get to loud when they get it wrong so early hours of the morning is off limits. I'm tempted to go wake him, maybe act like normal, as if last night hadn't happened. Running into his room waking him up, that's normal, but I have no case. No case at all. Maybe Lestrades got something, if he has he'll be awake, if not, well he can wake up.

_Any cases? –SH_

_What? No, Sherlock. It's 6:30. Go back to sleep, or talk to John. I'll contact you when you're needed. –GL_

Damn. No cases at all then, 6:40. Time's going slowly, slower then I'd like, but at least John isn't around yet, I don't think. I go to his door and try and open it, the door doesn't budge. He's still asleep against the door and the doors still locked. He really didn't want to see me last night. Something inside me sinks; I'm not used to these... these emotions. I don't know how to handle them; I'm going completely off of John's body language, when he's comfortable and uncomfortable with what I do, what I show. How I show it. That kiss, that half kiss that hovered between us, this kiss he didn't know happened. That's all I have, I do not know what possessed me to do so. It's been playing on my mind more than anything.

7:05. Well even if these thoughts do nothing but taunt me, at least they pass the time. It's so easy to get lost in thought thinking about him, the way he addresses people, so formal but kind. He'd make a good father one day. My mind wonders off into what I believe is to be called a 'daydream'. This isn't right; I don't give in to these, these dreams. I am Sherlock, I am the worlds' only consulting detective, and I do not love John Watson. I do not. I don't...

7:20.

"I do love John Hamish Watson" I hang my head and hide my face in my hands collapsing against the sofa resting my elbows on my knees. I cry, try not to, I force the emotions away, try and delete them. Force them as far away from my mind as I can, but it's not my mind that's affected by these thoughts and emotions, and even I cannot control that organ. I cry, the tears spilling out into my hands, I start to tremble, what starts as a silent whimper becomes a near breakdown. I can look at a butchered dead body and not flinch, not be effected, I can poke and prod it and not be move, but this is too much. My body shakes beneath me, my sobs now fully audible. I'm not scared I'll wake John; I'm praying I'll wake him. I hope he wakes and walks down, thinking he's hearing things, I want him to walk into the room and see me like this, I want him to walk up to me and panic and try and get words out of me, I want him to realise I can't speak and put his arms around me, I want him to hold me on this sofa while I cry. I want him to tell me how he feels, that he feels the same and kiss me. I want that full kiss.

7:40. I can hear John stir, my head snaps up, my elbows still on my knees my hands still in their place, but I'm listening. He's moving but not awake, but will be soon. I dry my eyes with the palm of my hands. They have to be red, he'll know. I run to the bathroom and splash my face with water, maybe I can pass this off as a sleepless night. He won't want to keep eye contact for long, and after that... that moment of weakness neither do I. I do not want to look at him. That's wrong, I want nothing more than to look at him, to watch him in the way I want, to observe him personally and not just face value facts. I want to be allowed to do this but I cannot.

7:50.

He's walking around, unlocking his door. Running back through to the main area; I sit and wait. Even I am not sure how this is going to play out. He walks towards the entrance to here, getting closer, closer, louder footsteps, but walks straight past, straight past to my room. He's gone to see if I'm awake. Perfect. I can be me, lock myself away. _Hide._

"I suppose you're trying to see if I'm awake yet then John? I'll save you trouble." Flinging myself round the door, feeling a breeze against my legs. Wait, a breeze? I'm still in my sheet. At least he's used to seeing me like this. His eyes flicker across me in a way other then 'oh look. He's wearing his sheet. Again.' But in more of a... I'm not sure.

"Morning John." I smile at him; I heard that smiling breaks an atmosphere. It worked, he looks me in the eye, but I can't stay there. I cannot allow myself to fall into them again. I cannot break down in front of him again. He smiles back and I break contact. I turn around and leave. He thinks he's caught something in my eye, he thought he saw something.

How right you are John Watson. Never let anyone tell you you're anything less than you are, because you are brilliant.

He pushes past me to go to the kitchen to make himself breakfast, but as he does so his arm brushes me. This creates more emotions than it should; he's warm despite sleeping on the floor.He's rubbing his neck and walking awkwardly, it's obvious he slept on the floor. My eyes widen, by breathing haltered for a second and a relish every millisecond of this touch. It's been all the contact since he passed me the tea, he still doesn't know about that ghost kiss that I wish to finish so badly. I freeze, breathing heavily, looking down at the floor trying to make sense of why this contact affected me so much. My hand rises up to where we brushed.

"Sherlock do you want any breakfa... never mind." He's too busy messing around with bowls and cups and cereals to notice how slowly I turn, my hand still on that spot. Do something for him I think to myself. Anything at all, he's always complaining how I don't eat enough.

"Actually I'd love a bowl of cereal John" I walk around the corner and see him, and just watching him, not observing, but simply watching him move his way around, completely lost in thought is blissful.

I cannot stay here. This will be the second time I've ran out on him without an explanation but he's used to that. I grab the nearest pair of trousers that if lug amongst the flat, the jacket and scarf. I quickly put the trousers on; I left a pair of shoes downstairs, why did I do that? But it's now useful to me I don't need to waste time with shoes up here risking being caught leaving. I put the jacket on and the scarf, I open the door to leave and close it but not before hearing John ask one last question.

"Sherlock? I think we need to talk" and with that I close the door.

"I know we do John, we really do. Just not about the same thing and it's killing me." I rest my head against the door sighing heavily, raising my hands up beside my head leaning against the physical barrier between us. The only physical barrier between us, but not the only barrier, so many between us. I can feel myself starting to cry again, but while he's awake I cannot risk hearing me. I run down the stairs but it doesn't take me long before I find where I need to be.

Mrs Hudson.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock had been crying, I thought it was emotion for a split second but no. I blamed it entirely on tiredness. The redness in his eyes, the way they were slightly swollen. Why would Sherlock be crying? Nothing gets to that man- ever. We had no cases going on, none at all so it couldn't be anything like that. Mycroft? No, stupid thought. The only thing that'd happened in recent events was... last night.

Shit.

No, this can't be true it can't be... I can hear him running around in his room, I have to go and speak to him. The thoughts flood through my head as I walk across the room. What do I say to him? Do I even feel that way about him? He is a him after all. Does he even fell that way or do I mis-understand? He really is making a lot of noise up there, banging things around, it sounds almost as if he's fallen over. I quicken the pace I have to make sure he's ok now, my hands on the door knob.

Wait.

Sherlock left, he left and took his scarf and jacket with him, he left in that damn sheet. So who the hell is in his room? I run through this morning's scenes in my head, my hand never leaving the door knob.

The waking up, remembering last night, the eye contact, the arm brush, the breakfast, the breakfast he didn't eat because he left. I look around me, there has to be something I can use to defend myself. Nothing, I have to go back to get my gun, it's only down the corridor. Breathing heavily I panic. The noise has stopped, there's no movement from the room now.

_Sherlock, come quick. There's someone in your room.- JW_

Send. That's all I can do, it's all I have time for. There's movement again, coming towards the door. There's nowhere to go. I've got one option. Open the door first.

Too late.

"Oh, hello there John! It's been a while hasn't it?" Moriarty. I know what's happening, and I have to tell Sherlock, I hope I can get this text right without looking. It's all I've got, my last chance.

"I've got tired of waiting you know; you've been such a use to me. Keeping him busy, running around with him everywhere. But now you're just in my way." Nearly there, I know I've misspelt some of it, but the general idea is there, damn it this better work.

"Now you're just in my way. I don't usually do this myself, but this is personal you know? I may not even have to kill Sherlock after this, he'll probably do it himself, losing you. You know he loves you right? Oh come on, like you couldn't see it. Don't be so blind Johnny! Why don't you just tell him you feel the same, not that it matters now. You'll be dead before he makes it up the stairs. Now on your knees. This has to be properly timed."

Sherlock's running upstairs now, I can hear the steps. Running? No. He knows who's here, he hasn't known this was coming or he would have said, he'd never leave me alone.

"I said get on your knees!" Should have listened the first time, a receiving kick between the legs buckles me, I'm on all fours now and the gun is on my head, his fingers on the trigger.

"Sherlock. Sherlock please!" I have nothing left to do but beg for him; beg for the man I need more than anyone right now. The tears start to form and fall down my face. I'm not scared, not scared at all. I've faced death a million times and survived, I've cheated death and now it's time to welcome it, but I need to tell Sherlock everything, he needs to know he's not a freak, that he's not a robot, he is human, and he does have a heart. He needs to know that he has me.

"John!" The text, I never pressed send.

"Sherlock, you have 10 seconds to tell him anything you want, anything you want in the world. Enjoy it." I meet up at his eyes, ten seconds is all I have a look at him, trying to show him everything I can.

_10..._

"Moriarty stop this now!"

_9..._

"John, just... i... John I'm so sorry."

_8..._

His eyes, he's crying. There is nothing else to it, Sherlock Holmes is crying.

_7..._

"John, you are amazing, you are a true friend... you are.

"Oh come off it Sherlock, this is all rather cliché isn't it? 3 seconds Sherlock."

No! Please no, 3 seconds to live, Sherlock I love you, I do but I can't speak, the words, they're stuck. I can't say it, I can't tell you how amazing you are and how I dream about you, about us.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I am. Remember to get the milk." It's all I can say, I have nothing else.

_2..._

This can't be the end, after everything in my life, I'm going to die at the hands of a... of a mad man, well two mad men but now isn't the time to be thinking about it. The tears still roll down my face silently.

_1..._

"Bye Bye Johnny!"

"STOP NOW! JOHN I LOV..."

Bang.


	11. Chapter 11

I'm barely at the bottom of the stairs before the text comes through.

_Sherlock, come quick. There's someone in your room. - JW_

I haven't time to see Mrs. Hudson. John wouldn't text me something as trivial as this unless it was important, he wouldn't lie to get me back upstairs to apologise. No. Something's wrong, and he's in danger. Who could be up there? It's not over the top, so it cannot be Mycroft, no. Running up the stairs a thought catches in my mind.

Moriarty.

He's playing games; he's used John as a pawn. This is another trick to get me to come to him. It's a game. Stop running Sherlock, John's not in any real danger. It's you he's after, and if John is in danger, rushing in won't help him at all.

Please don't be in any danger John. I can't do any of this without you. Please don't be in danger. I hear a thud, a loud thud. Someone's fallen over, and is hurt badly. John, I can hear him pleading,

"Sherlock. Sherlock please!" I can hear him shout but it's muffled through the wooden door. John's in danger, and he's no way out of he'd have done it by now. My John is in real danger, I open the door, trying to keep the worry off my face. John's in danger, John's...

My face drop, my heart sinks. He's on his hands and knees, gun pointed at his head, he's crying, begging to be saved. All the while Moriarty is just stood there; finger on the trigger acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary. Please, don't let this be the end. There has to be a way out, there is always a way out.

"John!" I can't help but shout, as if it would help. I call his name out as if saying it alone could save him, it's a ridiculous thought, but it's all I've got. The voice in which I say it in verges on breaking, suppressing the tears I fight on. Moriarty always has something to say, and listening is the only tool I have now to attempt to save John.

"Sherlock, you have 10 seconds to tell him anything you want, anything you want in the world. Enjoy it."

I can't save him in 10 seconds, if I move across the room Moriarty will pull the trigger, if I sit and wait, he'll pull the trigger. John... I look into his eyes, hoping I can show him how much he means to me. I'm John, I'm so so sorry.

_10..._

The count down's begun, there is nothing to do nothing but speak, words are the only tool, but even they are useless.

"Moriarty stop this now!" Through gritted teeth I shout this, balling my hands into fists, drawing blood with my nails. I don't care, nothing is more important than getting John out of this. Alive.

_9..._

"John, just... I... John I'm so sorry." Moriartys chanting the numbers as if this is a song, or a game. This is all a game to him. All he wants to do is win, and now John's in the way.

_8..._

I can't help it, the tears fall, I cry silently but still I cry. I love him and I can't even tell him, even with the trigger ready to go. John I'm sorry, still the tears fall.

_7..._

"John, you are amazing, you are a true friend... you are." I want to say everything, I want to tell him he is everything to me, and how he saved me, how much he means everything.

"Oh come off it Sherlock, this is all rather cliché isn't it? 3 seconds Sherlock."

Panic sets in on John's face. He knows he cannot be saved, he's accepting it, but it doesn't stop him being scared. Think Sherlock! There must be a way out of this!

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I am. Remember to get the milk." Oh John, even in a time like this you still make me smile. John you're so perfect.

_2..._

Moriarty no please, you can't do this, my eyes switch between John and Moriarty. He has control over everything and he loves it. John I'm sorry I can't... save you. Every possibility in this situation leads to your death. John, please forgive me. I always meant to protect you, not harm you. John...

The tears still run down my face, still run down his. We both know this is the end. John, I have to tell you I don't want to, this isn't how you should find out...

_1..._

Quick, now Sherlock!

_1..._

"Bye Bye Johnny!"

"STOP NOW! JOHN I LOV..."

Bang.

The trigger is pulled, and John falls to the ground. Everything stops. I run to his side and drop to my knees, holding the now deceased doctor in my arms. Moriarty leaves laughing.  
>"Sorry Sherlock! But it's just how the game is played!"<p>

Nothing matters anymore; I pull the limp body towards me, cradling him into me. Crying into his shoulder, his arms hang below him; his life runs down me, staining my clothes, covering the floor. It does not matter. John, he's dead. I let him die, it's my entire fault.

"John, no. Please, don't be dead. Come on wake up, please!" Begging a lifeless body to return back to me. Begging death to give me back the man I love. It's impossible but I do anyway. John you can't be dead. My heart brings such pain to me it makes me feel sick. I can never tell him how I felt, I can never know if he felt the same. John...

I lower him back down, still tears fall from my eyes, I look at his face, his eyes no longer hold any life. The only eyes to ever look at me now join everyone else's and look straight through me.

"John..."

I cling to him, allowing myself to lower my lips down to his. We finally meet, but he cannot react, we touch, physically we touch but it's still a ghost kiss. There is no John Watson left in this body I hold, it is simply a body.

I lay him down, still feeling the agonising pain in my chest, and bring his arms down beside him. Taking one hand in mine I sit beside him and cry, it's all I can do. Sit and wait for the police to arrive. Mycroft's' cameras are here, he would have sent someone. His hand's so cold, no longer holding the life of John Watson. It does not grip back. He's gone, John you are gone.

"_Caring is not an advantage" _Never have I believed Mycroft to be right, even now he is wrong, it is not a disadvantage. It empowers you; John had given me the strength to fight so many times, to pull things off even I expected impossible.

Lestrade comes through the door.

"Come on Sherlock, let go of him now, come on, you need to move away from him."

"No."

"Sherlock please..."

"NO! Can't you see! He's dead!" I let go of John and standing, I turn to face the police officer who means only good, but I can't help it. John's dead.

"He's dead! What good is it going to do if I leave his side or not! He's dead and it's all my fault!" I break, once again my knees fail me and I fall to the floor crying into my hands, begging John to come back to me.

"Please, he's dead...Greg please."

He takes me away from the body, arm around taking the full weight of me. He takes me away, it turn for a last look at him, one last look at Doctor John Watson. The men in brightly coloured clothes surround him as if there was a chance left to save him.

"I'm so sorry John."


	12. Chapter 12

I hadn't been left alone since John's death last night, it wasn't my choice. They stayed to 'make sure I was ok' and tried to look after me with poor attempts to get me to eat and drink tea. How do they expect any of this, how do they expect me to be ok after John, of all people, had just been murdered in front of my eyes? There were no tricks in this. It was John. His body had been taken away, although I refused to let them. When they tried to remove the body from the flat, I ran back over to him, pushing Lestrade and Mycroft, trying to keep me back, out of the way and held his body again, and cried into him, trying to bring him back to me. To tell him how much he meant, how much I regretted not saying any of this to him. They had to pull me back, four men it took to get me to release my hold on him, and forced me into the kitchen where I couldn't see him be removed from the flat, our flat, my flat now.

_Stop Sherlock. _

Something stops me, stops my thought processes and halts me in my tears. I stop instantly and look up. I see the men standing before me, looking at me in pity. They pity me and it has to stop. I am Sherlock and I do not let my emotions get the better of me. I wipe the tears away, take in a deep breath and stand and start a step by step account of what had happened to Lestrade. He looks confused, wonders why I start this so suddenly.

"Sherlock, we don't have to do this now you know. It can wait a while if you want."

"No. Notebook and pen, start noting down everything."

He wants to fight back, argue that I need to come to terms with everything. I shoot him a look that causes him to be submissive and take his notepad and pen and, and I start again with the account of what happens. Tears do neither form, nor my voice break once. John Watson, the only person to ever cause any emotion in me is now dead. I do not wish to remember this, and it will be deleted from my mind as soon as this case is over. I cannot stay in this apartment, live a life, walk outside and see the sun, drink a cup of tea without crying over him. I know this to be true without experiencing it. I do not need these emotions that hold me back; the memories start to play back in my mind. The countdown and the confession.

The gunshot. John's body falling to the ground. The blood staining everything on himself and I, the carpet.

_Sherlock, don't do this. Please._

The same thing stopped me in my tracks got to me again, stopped the images repeating in my head. I need this case to be closed; it will be a short one. Mycroft's camera's caught it all. If only his men had got here that little bit earlier then John would be alive still. I wouldn't be in the process of gathering all the information in my mind, ready to delete. John would still exist in my world.

I've finished the account of what happened and Lestrade sets off, but before he places his hand on my shoulder and sighs.

"If you need anyone, to talk or for company or anything. Just... I'm here ok?" He can't meet my eye. This must be something to do with sentiment. The emotion starts to build again, causing tears to form again; I hold my breath in and nod. Biting down on my lip I sit back down, everything is too much and I collapse instead of the original intention to sit down, I miss the seat and fall to the floor. The last thing I see is the many hands rushing to try and catch me as I fall. The ground hits me hard.

Sometime later I awake, and see many a face staring down at me. There are so many people in my apartment. Why are they here?

"What... what are you all doing here?" There's a look of complete confusion on their faces, every single one of them, looking at me as if I should already know this.

"Sherlock, we're here because he was murdered, you passed out." What is Lestrade going on about, nobody was murdered.

"Who was murdered? Why am I on the floor?"

"John, Sherlock. Last night, you said he was shot right in front of your eyes. You cried over his body." Me, cry? What is Lestrade on about? I do not do emotions. Nobody was murdered, I live alone, why would anybody be in my apartment? This must be one of Mycroft's doings.

"Who the hell is John?"


	13. Chapter 13

They looked at me surprised, shocked. What exactly was going on?

"Really why are you here rambling on about some death in my apartment of a man that goes by the name of John? Is this some kind of joke?" Still the stood staring at me, mouths open in shock. They're acting as if I've done something horribly wrong. Every eye in the room was looking at me, especially Mycroft and Lestrades, they seemed to have frozen. Lestrade makes his way over to me and helps me up off the floor, there's blood all over me, and the floor. I suppose they think I've murdered this 'John'. Idiotic thought, if I were to ever murder someone I wouldn't be so careless.

"Sherlock, come on. You know who John is; stop this now. Get up. There we go."

His arm reached under mine and pulled me up; he escorted me over to the chair and sat me down. Everyone still stared at me. You would think in their profession they would become accustomed to seeing men covered in blood, actually. Why am I covered in blood? Lestrade tried to keep my eyes fixed on him, but I needed to know what had happened, and nobody would tell me anything more than 'John'.

"The floor is covered in blood, more than likely to match the blood on me. I'm not bleeding from anywhere so it could not be mine, and no one else appears to be harmed. The blood must belong to the body that had been removed, oh come on Lestrade it's obvious I know that, you're all here, there's blood, you're talking of a murder but no body? It's obvious it's been removed. You are all talking of a John, so I assume this must be the identity of the body. I cannot remember anything that has happened, and judging from the expressions on your faces when I comment on the name 'John' you all assume I have murdered him. I cannot remember anything from last night, this must be a suppressed memory, one that my mind does not wish to remember; it would stop my mind functioning half as well as it does now if I were to remember it seems. You're all here, and I am aware of all of your professions. There is only one possible conclusion for all of this."

This cannot be correct, I would not murder anybody. But all the facts that are observable lead to this only possible explanation. Everyone's looking at me expecting me to conclude my own deduction even though they all know the answer. They want a confession now instead of the hassle later on.

"You are wanting a confession for me. It seems I have murdered someone. Fine. I, Sherlock Holmes, killed a man last night in the apartment of 221B Baker Street."

If it was possible for more surprise and shock to be felt, then it was. Lestrades hand, which had been resting on my shoulder, was quickly removed and he stepped away from me. I put my fingertips together and brought them up to my chin where I rested my head against them. It seems once again I was correct. The surprise on their face now had a reason. I had finally cracked it seemed.

"Sherlock, I don't think you quite understand the extent of this situation... There... there are a few factors you seemed to have missed. Do you really not know who John is? Doctor John Watson?"

Lestrade was questioning me. He must want the details. John Watson... that name. It's familiar, very familiar. Where do I know him from...?

"Sherl-"

Lestrade started, but I need to think. I need to remember.

"Shhh!"

I hold my hand up, close my eyes and rest my head back on my hands. Think Sherlock. Think, you must know this name. You have to know the man you have killed...

"Sherlock please would you listen!"

Lestrade was angry, he wanted to speak, wanted me to hear words. What was there to hear? I had observably killed a man in my own apartment, a man who goes by the name of John. My mind had erased the memory; obviously useless information. Still, it wouldn't hurt to humour the poor man.

"Go on then."

I answer him without moving at all. Eyes still closed, I'll listen to what he has to say but it would be pointless taking not. Something he wasn't expecting, he's never allowed to speak, or interrupt my thoughts.

"Well come on, we don't exactly have all day. I don't see what is to be said, you have your culprit in front of you."

It could be interesting, but it would help if he would hurry it along. I'm getting bored. Lestrade approaches me again and kneels in front of me, his hand brushes mine. Something felt very familiar about that, as if that action had happened before, not long ago. Useless information and a waste of mental processes.

"Alright, Sherlock. You need to listen, to every word I say. Very, very carefully. Something's gone wrong in all of this, and we don't know why."

He stops, lowers his head... he's not sure where to go from here. He's bound to stutter somewhat soon, but he's not making sense. What could have gone wrong in a murder where the murderer has been caught and the body found? There are no loose ends to this. He doesn't carry on talking; he's waiting for a reply, waiting for me to tell him I'll listen, without interruption. I'm curious now.

"Fine."

Lestrade lifts his head, still kneeling before me, and starts to talk.

"Ok. Right... I... don't know how to start this, but you didn't murder John. We already have the statement of what happened and who did. Do you really not remember him Sherlock? Or what happened? Sherlock... John was your flat mate. He's lived with you for the past 18 months. He was murdered yes, you are correct there, and yes. That is his blood on you and the floor, but you didn't kill him."

What the hell is he on about? I've never met a man by the name John Watson before. I've never shared this flat. This has to be a joke; I've got to question this.

"Lestrade your maki..."

"No. Sherlock shut up and listen. We have the statement that you gave. You witnessed John Watson being murdered my Jim Moriarty. He was murdered right there in front of your eyes. Sherlock, do you really not remember what happened? He was your best friend. You passed out right after giving us your statement. Sherlock?"

What... No. This isn't possible. My head shoots up quickly matching Lestrades eye level. This cannot be possible.

"Lestrade I do not know what you are playing at, but this isn't a funny joke at all. The evidence is clearly in front of my own eyes, in front of all of yours."

I rescan everything, every little detail of the flat. Something isn't right here, this flat is too big for one person. I would never require this much room. There's a TV in here, something I myself would never own, and a woollen jumper. It isn't an item of clothing I own but it strikes familiarity. Without really noticing what I'm doing I walk over to the jumper and take it in my hands, lifting it up slightly, running my hands around it. There's something familiar with it, almost comforting.

"Whose jumper is this? Tell me!"

This has to belong to someone who is here, stupidly leaving it around. This is a crime scene now; you cannot leave things lying around. The jumper is just so familiar and I can't place where or how. These things are not important to me, yet this jumper, this... item, useless item strikes me hard. It causes emotions in me to rise. My hands grip on the jumper, it cannot be...

"TELL ME NOW! WHOS JUMPER IS THIS!"

Everyone's silent. This cannot be right.

"Sherlock, maybe you should listen to this. It might... might help clear things up."

Lestrade takes out a tape recorder and hands it to me, he's shaking as he does so. Whatever is on this must be important. I rewind it until it's at the beginning. I look up at him, he nods at me, encouraging me to listen. I lift it up to my ear, and press play. I hear my own voice talking, giving out an account of... no... this isn't possible...

"_I was downstairs when I received a text from John, he informed me something was happening upstairs. The text read, exactly these words ' Sherlock, come quick. There's someone in your room' I rushed upstairs instantly."_

A text, from this John. I check my phone as the account carries on.

"_When i had opened the door Moriarty was standing there with a gun directly on Johns head."_

There was a text from John, one of many it seemed. I opened the first one, the account still carrying on.

"_We had a talk, a long talk. I tried to save John but I couldn't move from that spot there or he would shoot."_

I assumed that 'that spot there' was the mark that the tape on my floor covered. My voice was cracking up, as if I as in tears.

"_He started a countdown, he got to one and shot... He shot... I'm sorry. He shot John. He shot him right in front of my eyes. He walked away after that. I... I..."_

I stopped talking, in fact; I was crying. I didn't need to hear more. There as just one more thing. The text. If the text read in accordance with this tape...

_Sherlock, come quick. There's someone in your room –JW_

"J-John? No..."

Now I know why this jumper was so familiar. The tape recorder dropped from hand instantly, hitting the ground with a thud. I ran from the apartment. I knew exactly what to look for. Everyone called after me.

"Sherlock!"

It was useless. I had no need to be there. I needed to see it, needed it to be confirmed. If what was seeming to be true was then all of their behaviour, their words, everything would fall into place. I saw ambulance, just closing the door. I had to hurry.

"No! Wait stop!"

I rushed over to the ambulance, pulling the door open. Ignoring the protests from the men I carried on into it. I needed to see him. See if this was all true. I pulled the sheet back, and there he was. Lying there. John Watson, covered in blood. His body limp, lifeless. Yes. It all made sense now. John Watson was alive, he had died in my flat, it hadn't been my hands. But it was my fault he died. I didn't act quick enough. The emotions i held for him over powered my mind. The jumper still in my hand i collapsed to me knees clinging to his hand, refusing to leave his side. It all made sense now, every single thing.

"I'm sorry John, I am so sorry. I will never forget you again."


	14. Chapter 14

I gripped his hand, refusing to let go. The men around me tried to pull me away, and I would have complied if it wasn't for who it was I was holding on to. The memories came back to me, everything; the cases, the game of cluedo, the tea. The incidents between us leading up to his death. I refused to move from his side, if he was still alive I would be gripping his hand hard enough to leave white marks, yet the blood flow was no longer there. I reached across to his other hand, and brought them both up to my lips. Who cares who see's. He's dead now what does it matter. I kiss his hands gently, and whisper into them. Whisper the words I wanted to tell him so badly.

"John Watson, I'm a man of many words, but not a man of emotions, so excuse my lack of romantics. I love you, please John, come back to me, please."

The tears fell from my eyes again landing on his hand; they still tried to pull me away from him. I heard a familiar voice calling me to leave his side, to let the men take him away.

"Sherlock come on, please. I know this must be incredibly hard on you. Watching him be killed, forgetting him remem... Oh."

As Lestrade approached the ambulance he saw the way I held my lips against the dead man's hand His words cut out at the sight, he knew. I looked up at him, begging him in my eyes to let me have my last chance alone with John.

"Give him 5 minutes. I don't care what protocol states, I'm telling you to give him 5 minutes!"

I made a mental note to thank him later. The hands pulling at me released their grip and the ambulance was emptied. The doors closed and the light was cut out, everything fell silent. It all seemed so surreal. My hands held his tightly against my chest, trying to bring him back. If only I had told him before, if I had told him how I felt, how I had always felt about him, instead of being my arrogant self then I wouldn't have left the flat, he wouldn't have been left alone giving Moriarty the chance to be alone with him, he would still be alive.

I may not have pulled the trigger, but his death was nobody's fault but my own.

"I'm sorry I never told you this before, and now your death is on my hands. Moriarty has won; I have nothing left to play for. He took away my life John."

I held his hands tighter, pleading him with them to come back to life. Praying my words would start his heart again. Heal the hole that the bullet had created.

"John please, I can't... not anymore. Don't leave. Just don't be dead, you're amazing and spectacular. I should never have left the flat, it is my fault alone. Don't you see? I just couldn't see you, couldn't be in your presence without falling...falling ever deeper for you. It was too...m- much for me, and my selfishness has l-lost me my only true friend, and the only one I ever... loved."

My words started breaking, the words slipping between my tongue. I had so much to tell him and no time to do so. He was a dead body, and I knew it to be true, that once dead there is no person in there, yet I felt the need to talk to him. I tried to speak again, force the words out from between my lips, yet my body disobeyed me. I could not do anything but weep into his chest. The blood drenched clothing, worn by both me and him, was still damp with fresh blood. I let his hand slide from mine, holding his body now, bringing his lips to mine.

Cold. That's all they were, cold and lifeless. There was no warm John in this body any more. I rested my head against his and silently cried against him. My body had never deceived me as much as it was now. I heard something fall, hit the floor. Metal on metal. My eyes shot open, and I made my way around John to see what had fallen. I looked around but couldn't see anything, and then my eyes fell on his phone.

The police didn't need this. John was gone and there was nothing I could do about it, I went back to him, placed one last kiss on him and held his hand.

"Goodbye John."

His phone was hidden inside my jacket, I wiped the tears away. No one needed to see this. I couldn't have people thinking I was sentimental and weak. The doors of the ambulance opened, and Lestrade jumped back, the shock of seeing me straight in front of him. I stepped down, forcing him to move to the side to let me through.

"Sherlock, I really think you need to stop and talk to someone."

He was trying, and I still needed to thank him,. Talk about what? John has been murdered and Moriarty needed to be caught. That was all there was.

"No Lestrade, I do not need to stop. In fact, I will not stop under Moriarty has joined John. Get your men on it, I'll contact Mycroft and see what he can find out about his whereabouts. There will be no court case. I will take care of everything."

_Find Moriarty. -SH_

He didn't protest, he knew better. He allowed me to walk back up to the flat, Mrs. Hudson was in tears. A shock I suppose.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry to hear!"

She reached over to hug me, why do people insist on touching me now? I pushed her away and carried on past her. Everyone was calling me; wanting my attention. There were no clues anywhere as to where Moriarty had gone. There were only the remains of John. The only clue I had was my own memory of what had happened. No one had any reason to be here anymore.

"Out. All of you. Get out!"

Silence fell as I raised my voice. Everyone looked at me; I wished they would stop this. I pushed as many as I could towards the door encouraging them all to leave. This was mine and Johns... my flat and only I needed be here. Eventually they all caught on, slow minds, and left. Each with their own comments and condolences for my loss. They make it seem as if he was a pet, but John was so much more than that. They left, unwillingly, but they left. The flat fell silent. I assured the last couple of people I would be fine, and told Lestrade if I needed him I would call straight away.

The door shut, finally, and I was alone. Nothing had changed except for the blood stain on the carpet reminding me what I was still wearing. I walked over to my room to get changed. Shirt and trousers didn't seem fitting, finding clothes didn't seem like an appropriate use of time so I just wrapped myself in my bed sheet and left the room, there was nothing in there of usefulness. The phone never left my hand, subconsciously refusing to let it go. I didn't need sleep as everyone advised. Walking back to the scene, John's room catches my eye, everything was the way he left it. I walked in, the light making its way through the closed curtains barely made a difference. It was dark; I kind of liked it that way. The bed was made, tucked in at the sides, a habit from his days in the forces I suspected. Sitting on the bed, my hand ran over the top of it, remembering the dream I had witnessed.

I was tired, this wasn't a lie, but a fact. I did need sleep, yet it didn't seem important or even appropriate. I'd been in the flat before when John hadn't been around, yet now it felt so empty. He was never going to home, yelling at for forgetting the milk. He knew I did it on purpose just to wind him up. Cautiously I walked over to his bed and laid a hand upon it, then the rest of me followed. Soon enough I was curled up in his bed. My knees pulled in, my arms pulled in as well. The phone close to my heart. I knew there were things on it that John would write down so he didn't have to keep them in his head. I wondered if I had ever been mentioned. I couldn't bring myself to look at it, despite the fact he died with it in his hands. The smell of John surrounded me, I pulled the duvet up closer around me, brought it up covering everything but my eyes. I let them close, breathing in everything I could. The tears fell once again. I hated how much this man had made me lose control, and become more human, yet he was the only person in the world to make me feel. Instead of just being a body with a brain, I could feel. The pain was too much, the memories with him, the memory of him dying. It was too much, it hurt. I couldn't keep it contained in me. It was too much, I sat up slightly, looking through his draw.

His pocketknife.

It wasn't ideal, it wasn't overly sharp, but it would do. I wasn't even sure of what I was doing. I just had to relieve this pain. I brought the knife to the arm holding the phone, and lowered it until it was level with the wrist. Gently I pressed it against the flesh, the cold was the first thing to feel. Nothing happened, no pain relief. I pressed harder until I could feel the blood run down my hand. It felt better, but only slightly. A heavy sigh was released from the pleasure it gave, the satisfaction of knowing I was repaying John in the slightest way. I had murdered him and now I would repay him blood. I would find Moriarty and kill him, but I needed to give John my share of the guilt. I repeated this process over my entire arm until blood ran freely down my arm. The pain still lived in me, but it had been eased. They were deep some of them, enough that would have called John to panic and stitch them. I would not trust any other doctor now except John. It could wait until the morning, I climbed out of his bed. The tears stopped falling with the first draw of blood. I walked into the bathroom and washed them down. It stung, it was compensation for what I had done to John. The sink filled with red, more than there should be. I started to feel dizzy but pushed through this bodily hindrance. The towel nearest to me was placed on my arm, applying pressure to the deepest wounds. I didn't want blood in Johns bed. I felt the need to stay the night there.

I would repeat this process every day until I had repaid John in full.


	15. Chapter 15

The smoke billowed around me, the drink in me shown me shapes and faces in it. I kept seeing you John. Alive and well. You looked happy, I had tried to hold your face in my hands but you kept slipping through my fingers. You were there in front of me, but no matter how hard I tried you would always fall through and leave me.

Again.

I had barely slept since you died John. I miss you, I know I never understood sentiment. I could never find it in my mind to place such irrelevance. But I miss you. I never held information any where other then in my mind, but this information is missing from someone where else, John you left my heart. It's been 3 days since you died. The funeral's tomorrow.

_I know._

You haven't left my mind once John. Lestrade came to me with a case, said it was ok if I didn't feel up to it. I didn't understand what he meant until I got there John. There was a dead man, he looked just like you. Except it couldn't be could it. Then all the information blurred together, there was no clear answer John. What happened?

_I don't know Sherlock. _

Everything bled together John, I couldn't see the answer, even though it was simple. Scotland yard worked it out in the end. I left and came home John. I keep falling asleep in your bed. It's strange. I took another drag from the cigarette. It was nearly out, I watched as the embers burnt at the end. The sleeves on my shirt were rolled up. I didn't bother with the nicotine patches anymore, they didn't work. They were sore, a few fresh ones. They were deep and red, the clothing irritated them, but I bathed in the pain it gave me. I was repaying you John. I'll have to wear long sleeves at your funeral. I'll wear the purple shirt, I remember you commenting on it, saying I looked smart. There was something else behind your voice when you said it, I never paid much attention. I never gave you the attention you deserved though did I. Now I think of it, I never really noticed any influence you had on me. There's a warmth in me that left when you died. I took it for granted when you were here. I didn't know it was because of you John. People shouldn't have the effect on other people, it makes them weak. But I miss it, I miss that feeling you gave me. I had tried to replace it with the drink you had, it had worked the first time, now it just ebbed at the pain. It was still there but it made everything surreal, reality seemed fake. I could bring you back to life with it. The cigarette burnt my fingers, it shocked me and I dropped it. Reconsidering I realised I had an opportunity to pay you back again. I took every one I could.

_Please don't Sherlock. Not again._

You're sat across the table from me again. You're fine now. Alive.

My mind didn't work anymore, what use was I without my mind. I'm just a body, a useless body. I can't see the facts on people, or make the links anymore. Of course Anderson's glad about that, I'm never around now. I'm no use to them, I'm nothing any more. I'm so bored John, there's nothing to do if I have no cases. I can't solve them. This is all I have left, it's the only way to keep me going John, to repay everything back to you.

"It's for you John, I have to repay you."

My voice is shaking, slurring. You're shaking your head at me now, resting your head on the table. You would sigh now, you should sigh, but you're making no sound John. You don't understand why I have to do this, but I do. The cigarette is eye level with me, I'm turning it between my fingers, observing every fraction of it. The hot ash falls against my hand, I barely feel it. I barely feel anything now. It leaves a red mark

_Sherlock no, please. Don't do this._

You divert my attention; you were always spectacular at that. No one else managed it quite as well you. You managed to keep my attention which many had declared an impossible feat. My eyes flash at you. You're looking up at me now; something's different about you John. You're begging me to not do this anymore, yet your eyes don't say the same.

They don't say anything.

_Please Sherlock, this isn't fair. You can't blame yourself._

I look at you for a second, and then drive the cigarette against my skin. It burns; I can hear the skin being scarred. It shoots up my entire arm, the heat.

_Sherlock stop! Now! _

My hand clenches against the pain, throwing my head back, allowing one tear to fall. Not a single sound escapes my mouth. I refuse to allow it; this pain will be kept inside of me. The drink's wearing off. Dropping everything I held in my hands I left the chair and walked to the bottle. It was more of a stumble really, I thought I head you laugh so I turned to face you. You'd gone. You keep leaving me John, why do you do that? Did I do something wrong?

_No you didn't Sherlock._

"Yes I did. I killed you John. I killed you in that room."

The bottle's empty, it's okay though. There's another bottle in the cupboard. I take the bottle out, a clear liquid. Vodka, the lady at the counter said it was an alcoholics favourite. I figured it would only take twice the average to effect my mind. I would have been correct except my mind doesn't belong to me anymore. You took it with you John. The bottle comes off easy, even with the shakes, and the two tops of the bottle. I drink as much as I can from it in one breath. It makes me want to be sick John, but I force myself to keep it down. I'm coughing now, heaving on the floor on my hands and knees, one hand clamped to my chest. It had burnt its way through my body. It was disgusting, but it works, you're back. You're closer now, beside me.

"I miss you John."

You're right beside me; you're the only one I let get this close to me. Did you know that John?

_Yes, I did._

Your hand is on my shoulder now, your cold, so very cold. Even through my clothing I can feel it. It felt relieving to have you with me now, I can't stop coughing now. You kneel down beside me, kneeling on your toes, bum resting on your heels. A habit from the army. I can feel your hand on my chin, so very, very cold John. You pull my head up to meet your eyes. You look straight through me, I can't find you in them anymore. Your coming closer to me, tilting my face towards your own. Wait no that's not right, I'm leaning in towards you, but you're not pushing me away. You're really here aren't you John?

_No._

Yes you are! I can feel you John. I push myself up from the floor, kneeling with him, faces barely touching, your hand's still on my chin. John, please forgive me.

"I love you John."

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop myself, you don't respond and once again my lips betray me. They place themselves on yours, a brief gentle kiss. My mind empties, everything that ever happened suddenly seems pointless and irrelevant. My eyes flutter shut, and I press my lips against you with more pressure. I know you're there, I can see you, _ hear _you. So why can't I feel you John. No matter how hard I try I cannot feel you. I cannot feel you kiss me. I draw back, and open my eyes.

_I love you to Sherlock, I do._

It takes the time of your sentence for my eye sight to adjust. You haven't left me, you're still here. My hand makes its way to your face, cradling it. You lean into it, I've missed you so much John, all the time I miss you, but you're alive. You're here in front of me John.

_I'm not Sherlock. Look at me._

I look at you, I see you, you're alive. You've got something in your hair John, it's red. John why have you... John you're bleeding. It's all over my hand, John it's all over you, it's falling on your shoulders, I try and stop the bleeding, I push on your head, trying to stop the bleeding, but the drink causes me to miss, I try again but my hand just goes straight... through you. John where are you going? No... Come back. John!

_Stop this Sherlock._

Stop what John? John come back, I crawl forward trying to catch you, stop you leaving, press my lips against yours once again but I just fall forward, I fall against the table, hitting my head. John you've gone, where are you? John!

I collapse on the floor, my head hitting the floor. The last thing I see is the broken bottle by my eyes. Ready and waiting for the morning.

"Come back to me John..."


End file.
